


His Name is Death

by Niitza



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Death, F/M, Gen, M/M, mention of terminal illness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-14
Updated: 2014-08-14
Packaged: 2018-02-08 21:00:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1955988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Niitza/pseuds/Niitza
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It's time, Sammy."</p>
            </blockquote>





	His Name is Death

The main room in his old country house was warm and quiet. From time to time, the breeze that made the trees rustle outside filtered its way in through the open back door, refreshing the air. Despite the screen a couple of flies had managed to sneak in with it and were buzzing in zig-zags from one wooden wall to the next. On the mantelpiece, the old clock ticked on and on, a faint backdrop to the garden's birdsong. Light streamed through the door and windows, sparking a ballet of twinkles in the floating dust, and bathed the wooden floor with the pure gold of another beautiful summer afternoon coming to an end.

Sam was reclining in his favorite armchair, his long limbs comfortably spread, his wrinkled hands resting on the book that had fallen closed on his lap. He hadn't noticed he had nodded off—so many things escaped his notice these days—until a voice drew him out of his slumber.

"Heya, Sammy."

He blinked his eyes open, slowly breathed in—and then abruptly straightened, his right hand snapping up to hold back his glasses when they threatened to slide off his pointy nose.

Dean was standing in the doorway between the living-room and the kitchen, leaning against the doorjamb with one leg casually crossed over the other—Dean at twenty seven, full of nonchalance and swagger, Dean with his shabby jeans and leather jacket, Dean healthy and looking at him with lucid green eyes, a small smirk curving the corner of his lips. It widened at his little brother's reaction.

"I see you still haven't cut your hair," he remarked.

"I'm dreaming," Sam said, threading a hand through said hair, trying to calm the wild beating of his heart.

Dean's eyebrows twitched up. "Over sixty years and you're still dreaming about me? Sammy, I'm touched."

Sam scoffed, amused and unable to hide his joy. He'd always been fond of these dreams in which Dean came to visit, even if they were only that: dreams.

"I hope I'm nice to you, at least, if I come bother you that much." At Sam's obvious puzzlement Dean went on: "I don't go around accusing you of letting me die, or anything like that, do I?"

"No," Sam reassured him with a smile. "Mostly you're just… alive."

Dean nodded in a silent _Ah…_ The clock tic tic ticked on, stumbled upon the half hour and rang.

"I miss you," Sam whispered. "So much. Still."

And this was clearly a dream, because instead of huffing, of raising a hand and protesting against yet another chick flick moment, Dean remained silent, his smile softening. He tilted his head to the side and said:

"And this is probably the moment when I should tell you this is not a dream."

Sam raised his eyebrows.

"You're not sleeping, Sammy," Dean explained. "Not quite."

"What's happening, then?"

"You know what's happening." Hearing Dean talk so low, seeing him so calm, almost cautious, miles away from his usual brash self, was subtly unnerving. Maybe that was why it didn't take long for Sam to understand what he meant.

"… Oh."

"Yep," Dean said. "It's time, Sammy."

A silence followed while Sam considered the thought, the situation, and realized its implications for him, for his children. For the person standing in front of him.

Because it wasn't Dean. Not really.

"So what's that, then?" he asked, voice turning brittle as he gestured at him, it. "Some sort of special treatment or…?"

The creature tilted its head to the side in faint confusion—something Sam's Dean would never have done.

"Taking that shape, the shape of a close one—yeah, I guess that would make things much easier for you."

"Sometimes," the creature replied, ignoring the bite in Sam's voice. "But I found it often works better when I go with the original package. After all, who doesn't like an eye candy?" It gestured at itself. "Over fifty years, and chicks still dig the looks, man."

"Nice try," Sam retorted, refusing to be impressed by that thing's ability to reproduce Dean's mimics and intonations, his whole attitude, so well. He chose to channel it into a cold, dark rage. "But you can drop the act. I don't need it. Whatever you have to say, you can say it using your real voice, wearing your real face. I know what you really are."

"Oh?" The creature had the gall to grin. "And what's that?"

"You're a reaper."

The creature's smile widened and it clapped slowly. "Good to know that all these years of retirement didn't mess up your memory, Sammy."

"Don't call me that," Sam spat. "You don't get to call me that."

The reaper pursed its lips. "Why? 'Cause I'm dead? Did that make me lose the privilege? Did dad lose it too?"

Sam gritted his teeth and glared, refusing to show how painful that whole act was becoming.

"I do have another form now, but it's ugly as hell. You don't wanna see it." It looked at Sam for nearly a minute. When Sam didn't move, its expression sobered and it said: "It's me, Sammy. It's really me."

Sam choked out a laugh.

"What?"

"You really expect me to believe that?"

"Why not?"

"You died," Sam seethed, not quite knowing why he was playing along with that thing's game.

"I am aware of that, yes. But I don't see how-"

Sam cut him off. "You died and, what, became a reaper? That's what you're telling me?"

The creature nodded, looking, for a second, extremely ill-at-ease—and far too vulnerable and reluctant for these emotions not to be genuine. "That was the agreement, yeah."

"The agree-" Sam broke off and nearly sprang off his seat, not caring about how his knees cracked as he did so. "I knew it!"

"Careful, Sammy," Dean said, raising his hands in a placating gesture. "You wouldn't want the first thing you do in the afterlife to be breaking that hip."

Sam whirled back around to face him. "You made a deal. And you _lied_ to me."

Dean crossed his arms. "I didn't lie."

"Oh yeah? Then what was it, Dean? When you told me-"

"I told you I hadn't done a deal with any demon," Dean said with a shrug. "And I didn't."

"Bullshit!"

"I was ready to, though," he went on, like Sam hadn't spoken. "I had it all ready. You know, box, bones, picture, the whole shebang. I went to a graveyard to get some dirt and I was ready to take off for the nearest crossroads… Only then this guy appeared out of nowhere." He shrugged again. "He had a better offer."

"Your life for mine, and no rest for you eternal soul," Sam summed up snidely. "Yeah, I'm really seeing the advantages."

"It ain't so bad. Beats rotting in Hell for all eternity, for one."

Sam breathed out harshly, trying not to let that flippant tone rile him up even more than he already was.

"And your cancer, you wasting away for months, what was that, the cherry on top?"

Dean looked distinctly uncomfortable.

"… That I asked for," he finally admitted.

"You-" Sam cut himself off and turned away, threading a hand through his white hair.

"I needed you to let go, Sammy," Dean said behind him, almost pleading. "If I'd dropped dead from one day to the next you would've known there was something fishy and you would've…" He trailed off. They both knew what Sam would've done, or at least tried to do, not caring what it took for him to succeed. "So yeah, I asked him to give me something," Dean went on, raising his chin defiantly. "Something too serious or too far along to be curable—something that'd give you the time to come to terms with everything, but would leave you able to go on with your life afterwards." He paused, then added so quietly that Sam almost didn't catch it: "Thank you for doing that, by the way. For moving on."

Sam pressed his lips together, not appreciating the misplaced gratitude. Dean had no right to be grateful for something that, as it turned out, had never really been a choice. He remembered how it had felt back then, unfair but inescapable, and even after all these years the memory was still strong enough to bring tears of frustrated despair to his eyes.

"I still knew something was fishy," he pointed out.

Dean rolled his eyes. "Yeah, yeah, you're a genius, we know. Bobby was too."

"Did you reap him?" Sam asked, suddenly wondering how things had gone for the man who'd been more of a father to him than John had ever been.

"No," Dean replied, soft with regret. "I don't have much control over who I get, you know. That I reap you is part of the deal, but-"

"So you acknowledge it was a deal."

"Never said it wasn't."

"With whom, if not with a demon?"

"Who do you think?" Dean asked, raising his eyebrows in challenge.

A silence followed, while Sam thought. From what little he knew, and what Dean had become, the only logical explanation would be…

"Death."

But it sounded ludicrous. And yet, Dean nodded.

"You made a deal with Death," Sam said flatly. "Death is a guy?"

He wasn't quite able to erase the skepticism from his voice.

Dean shifted awkwardly. "Well, when he came to me, my limited human brain gave him a shape I could comprehend and… To me, he looked like an old man. A very distinguished old man, mind you, but still an old, crooked-" He cut himself off. "Anyway. First impressions, you know. They kinda stick."

"And why did… _Death_ -" Pronouncing the name still felt surreal. "-take such an interest in you? In me?"

"I don't know for sure. He didn't say. Dude just loves never giving anyone a straight answer," Dean replied with a wry smile. "But from what I could gather since then, he didn't want to deal with the hassle that me going to Hell would involve. There was an Apocalypse in there somewhere…"

"An apo- As in, _the_ Apocalypse?"

"Yep. Azazel was aiming big, apparently. Good thing we stopped the son of a bitch before he could open the gates of Hell, innit?"

Sam nodded slowly, still reeling.

The clock rung three quarters in the renewed silence.

"So, what happens now?" Sam asked once the sound had faded back into the afternoon quiet, only broken by the trills of a wren. "You- you reap me and I go wherever I'm meant to go and you… You stay here? On your own?"

"Pretty much," Dean said. "I have lots of people to see."

Sam huffed. "Yeah, right." He watched his brother, thinking, calculating, before adding: "I'm sorry but, no."

"No what?"

"No, I'm not leaving," Sam said. "I'm not leaving you here, alone, with nothing but this so-called job-"

"Stop making me sound like a workaholic," Dean protested indignantly. "I still get free time, I have hobbies, I have _friends_ , I-"

Sam ignored him to ask the most pressing question: "Can't I become a reaper too? We could, like, work together, just like old times."

The suggestion shut Dean right up. He stared at his little brother for a long time, brow slightly furrowed. When he finally spoke, it was in a strange tone, subdued and wary: "I'm trying to determine if you're looking for a way out of dying or if you actually just missed me that much."

The mere suggestion that Dean might think Sam was only doing this out of self-interest hurt. It probably showed on his face, in his eyes, for Dean let his gaze drop to the ground and sighed.

"You don't want to do this, _be_ this, Sammy," he said. "Believe me. Death… It's not the right business for you."

Sam inhaled sharply, piqued as he'd always been when people tried to tell him what was best for him, like they knew better. "And it is for you? 'Cause from what I recall, you were the one all about saving people's lives no matter what, Dean. Hell, that's why we're both standing here right now."

Without a word, his brother looked back up at him. There was an indecipherable expression in his eyes, something tired and knowing, something old clashing with the unchanged youthfulness of his features.

"I have realized that death can be a salvation too," he said after a while. "Sometimes it brings peace. Not always. Sometimes it's gruesome, and unfair. Most of the time it's just plain ugly. And sad." His gaze faltered for a second, losing itself in something Sam couldn't see, a memory he didn't share. Then Dean blinked back to the present and shrugged. "But it's a part of life."

"You sound pretty zen about that," Sam remarked cautiously.

"Years give you perspective."

"But you don't think I'd become zen too?"

Dean looked at him in a way he didn't understand. "I just know," he claimed, plain and sure. "I know this job and no matter what, I still know you better than anyone too." He hid the small, affectionate smile that escaped him under a smirk. "Besides, I don't see the boss anywhere near to offer you the job."

"Can't you call him?" Sam asked, unwilling to give up.

Dean burst out laughing like he'd just heard a good, unexpected joke. "Dude, he's got other things to do, believe me. Why d'you think he created reapers in the first place? It's called delegation, Sammy."

Sam crossed his arms. "Or I could always refuse to go where you want me to and stay here with you," he said mulishly.

"You won't do that."

Sam narrowed his eyes. Dean's calm certainty was starting to seriously get on his nerves. "Why?" he challenged, feeling stubborn like he hadn't acted in years. "You gonna force me?"

"Oh, I can't force you to do anything. Bottom of the line, it's still your choice. But you know as well as I do what happens to spirits that remain stuck, Sammy." Dean smiled sadly as Sam's eyes widened in realization. "Don't do this to yourself. Don't do this to me."

Sam snorted. "That's rich, coming from you."

"What can I say? I always had that instinct, that flair that you sorely lack, so-"

Had he been younger, more mobile, Sam would've grabbed his brother around the neck and made him bite his tongue. But it had been years since he'd been able to afford such acrobatics.

"So that's it," he said, Dean's brazenness convincing him that he would not budge. "That's the last time?"

Dean sobered. "Yeah." A pause. "To be honest, I will miss you. I'll miss dropping in on you without you knowing."

"You did?"

He snorted, not bothering to state the obvious: _As if there was any possibility I wouldn't_.

Sam felt a warm feeling spread through him, a strange relief barely tainted by worry and embarrassment over what Dean might've seen sometimes. Because all his life, at every moment of joy or surprise, of success or happiness, there had always been that dampening thought at the back of his mind, that relentless regret that his brother wasn't here to share it with him. There had always been that childish wish that somewhere, hopefully in heaven, Dean was watching over him with an amused or pleased smile, witnessing everything, living through him.

As it turned out, he had been. Sometimes.

"So you know-"

"Everything. More or less." Dean raised a hand and started curling his fingers as he spoke, as if ticking items off a list. "Like, I know you wore an ugly ass tie at your wedding, which is saying something about how much your fiancé loved you. I know you told her everything, just in case, and because it was the only way she could ever really know you—and that she didn't believe you, so you had to take her on a ghost hunt to prove you weren't crazy. I know that you nearly fainted when you first kid was born, because clearly you'll always be nothing but a big wuss. I know-"

"I took care of the Impala," Sam cut him off.

"You did. And well." Dean smiled. "Thanks, Sammy."

Emotion clogged Sam's throat, made his eyes burn. Every time he'd tuned the car or brought her to a mechanic he could trust, he'd always thought of Dean, thought at him, _See, see? I'm taking care of her, like you asked, like I promised_. And he'd hoped that wherever he was Dean saw it, that he knew. Somehow.

"She's in a museum now," he said.

Dean nodded approvingly. "Baby sure deserves it."

"Will you…"

Sam didn't dare finish the question at first, but Dean simply watched him interrogatively, patient and attentive. Sam felt he'd had a lot of practice over the years, waiting for people to find their words, to come to terms with the end of their existence, to gather their courage. He could almost see it, Dean sitting at an old woman's bedside, brightening her last few instants with his charming presence; appeasing the unlucky victim of a crime, leading them towards acceptance; holding a child's hand through the understanding of what death is, like he'd guided that boy in Manitowoc, or in Fitchburg, all those years ago.

He took a breath.

"When I'm gone, will you still keep an eye on them?" Surely his children counted as family too, didn't they?

"'Course I will," Dean replied, like it was obvious. "I have to say, I have a soft spot for your Deanna girl. That's one hell of a chick, for sure."

The smug pride in his voice made Sam chuckle. "Yeah, she is." She'd also been an absolute terror as a child, and as a teenager, taking after her namesake in an almost disturbing way. Something told Sam that Dean had been witness to many of her shenanigans, and had laughed his ass off at his little brother, the dick.

Little by little his smile faded though, and his heart constricted. He already knew how hard it would be for her to lose him. And he was going to miss her, so much.

He opened his mouth to ask if there would be a way for him to know how she was doing, how everyone was doing, wherever he went—but before he could, he heard something behind him, like a gust of wind drowned by the flapping of large wings. He glanced over his shoulder.

There, on the back porch, a man was standing, with ruffled dark hair and an old fashioned trench coat. He briefly glanced inside, right at them, a brief flash of piercing blue eyes before he turned away towards the garden. The line of his shoulder was tense, the atmosphere around him charged like the air before a storm.

Sam felt his heartbeat pick up.

"Who's that?" he asked. "Is he- is he here for me?"

He felt afraid, suddenly—afraid of the unknown, of Dean maybe getting in trouble. Maybe they'd been taking too long, maybe someone had been sent to help or take the situation out of Dean's hands.

"No," Dean replied quietly. He hadn't moved an inch. "He's here for me."

Sam looked back at him, surprised. "Why?"

"It's not every day you reap your only little brother, Sammy."

And there it was now, the sadness, the mourning welling in Dean's eyes, throwing a shadow over the feeble curve of his smile. All pretense was gone. This was Dean losing his little brother for good, after having, in a way, kept him all his life, even if it had been at a distance. Sam was going somewhere Dean wouldn't, couldn't follow. Because Dean would never die.

Sam glanced back at the man, who was still tactfully facing the other way, present but granting them their privacy.

"So he's a, um… a colleague? Another reaper?"

He felt a touch of relief, knowing that Dean wasn't completely alone. It turned into puzzlement when he saw an unknown smile spread over Dean's face, reaching all the way up to his eyes as he replied, his voice soft, secretive, a bit shy: "No, he's not. He's- he's something else."

The way he said it, Sam wasn't sure Dean was only referring to the man's species.

"What is he then?"

Dean's smile widened. "Now you wouldn't want me to spoil the surprise _now_ , would you? You'll know soon enough."

"You know where I am going," Sam realized.

Dean nodded, but didn't give any further information. Although surely, it couldn't be that bad. Dean wouldn't be so relaxed if it was.

"Wanna see for yourself?"

Sam recognized the question for what it was and hesitated. He just—he wished there was more time.

But he probably wasn't the first one to have such a wish; nor would he be the last.

"I would've liked to know the ending of that book," he said, glancing down at the volume that had fallen to the floor when he'd left his seat.  
Dean followed his gaze, then shook his head.

"It's not worth turning vengeful over, believe me."

Sam smirked.

"Hey, I read," Dean protested. "I have an eternity for it now."

"Yes, you do." Sam paused, then sighed. There was no point in putting it off any longer. "Yes, okay. I'll go."

Dean smiled, pleased and relieved. A glow appeared in the doorway behind and around him, a while light that brightened until it was almost blinding. Sam squinted and swallowed as he approached, nervous.

"You're not coming?" he asked when he'd reached Dean's side, just in case.

"Nah," Dean replied with a regretful shake of his head. "I'm only here to point you in the right direction."

"So this is really it."

Sam was stalling, he knew.

"Yes," Dean said. Then, after a pause: "Oh, okay, come on. I know you want it."

He opened his arms and Sam felt the smile split his face before he fell right into them. He returned the hug fiercely, squeezing his eyes shut and tightening his arms. Any second he expected Dean to protest, to shy away from him. But Dean didn't. He simply returned Sam's embrace with all he had.

"Thanks for having a good life, Sammy," he whispered. "That's all I ever wanted for you."

When Sam felt able to let go and they parted, he retorted: "I wanted you to have a good life too."

His voice was a bit broken, heavy with the tears blurring his eyes. Dean only smiled.

"Nah," he said. "The whole apple pie life was never for me, and you know it. A wife, kids, a white picket fence… Hell no." He looked away with a grimace, but then his expression changed when his eyes landed on the man still waiting outside, turned soft and content as another smile slid onto his lips without him appearing to be aware of it. "Plus," he murmured. "This one ain't half bad."

Sam glanced back and forth between his brother and the stranger, caught off-guard, wondering-

"So you're okay?" he asked hesitantly.

"I am, Sammy," Dean assured him, quietly certain. "I really am."

They looked at each other for several seconds, then Dean cleared his throat. "Now go," he said with a hard pat on Sam's shoulder. "Who knows, maybe one day I'll find a way to pay you a visit. I'm sure Cas can figure something out, pull some strings."

"Cas, huh?" Sam smirked when Dean briefly froze, a faint flush spreading across his cheek. "You better find a way. And then you can tell me all about how you two met."

Dean frowned at him for a moment, as if ready to deny everything, but then he let it go with a chuckle and a shake of his head, conceding that, if he still knew Sam better than most, the reverse was also true. When he looked back up, happiness and sorrow were warring in his eyes, but he was smiling.

He clapped Sam on the shoulder one more time and Sam nodded at him. Then he looked at the light and took a deep breath.

He stepped through the doorway.

As soon as he had he felt a strange detachment, felt himself move without actually moving, felt himself float while his feet remained firmly anchored to the ground. He looked down at them, at his hands, as the continuous ache in his articulations started to fade, their stiffness to dissolve—and he'd forgotten how it felt, to be able to move that way, freely and without pain.

With a delighted laugh he glanced back one last time, wondering if Dean could see, if he knew. But his living-room was already fading from sight, blurring around the edges like a dream in the clear light of dawn. All he could see, in these last few seconds, were two silhouettes standing close together behind the screen door; all he could hear was the soft rumble of Dean's voice and another one, deeper but just as warm, murmur in reply; all he could feel was ease and companionship, support and affection.

It would figure, Sam thought, that Dean would find love and contentment beyond death, beyond time. But what mattered most was, he wasn't alone. He would never be alone.

Sam could let go.

He felt himself smile, and then they disappeared entirely, dissolved in front of his eyes as he rose, surrounded by light, warmth, and peace.

 


End file.
